Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire, invited Margaret, Countess Charmain to stay on after the meeting. Eleanor did not know Lady Charmain well, and was keen to remedy the lack. She already knew that the lady was an unusual young lady.

It was not that she had inherited an earldom in her own right. That was simply an accidental combination of the historical wording of the earldom’s founding documents and the lack of a male heir in the current generation.

Nor was it that, young as she was, she ran her estates and investments with confidence, efficiency and flair — better, in fact, than most men of her age. Eleanor took it for granted that a lady was just as capable as a gentleman with the same training and education, and that women in their early twenties were often more sensible than their male counterparts.

One point of interest was that the countess was a skilled herbalist. Two of the young people in Eleanor’s new family by marriage ran a clinic on the outskirts of a London slum, and both Ruth, her husband’s daughter, and Nate, her husband’s nephew-in-law, spoke highly of Lady Charmain’s knowledge and her empathy for those she treated.

The other was that the lady had — or so gossip suggested — turned down every proposal she had received through the last two seasons. Did she intend to remain single? Or was she disappointed with the crop of husbands currently on offer. Eleanor hoped to find out. She would be happy to put Lady Charmain in the way of meeting young men with more interests than the cut of a coat or the conformation of a horse.

As it happened, Lady Charmain spoke before Eleanor could introduce the topic of her possible spouse. “Your Grace, I am glad you asked me to stay on today. I have something to ask you. I have accepted your invitation to your annual debut ball. I wonder if I might bring a gentleman as my escort?”

“Of course, my dear,” said Eleanor, wondering who it might be. Gossip linked Lady Charmain’s name with that of Lord Snowden, who was more than twice her age, and with his son, who was nothing but a cub, still wet behind the ears.

Lady Charmain blushed, which was interesting. “The fact of the matter is, that he is not in Society, Your Grace. You should know that, while his behaviour is that of a gentleman, his birth is… In fact, I do not know what his birth is, but he works, Your Grace.”

“I have no problem with that,” Eleanor said, amused. “People must eat, after all. Indeed, I have more respect for a gentleman who earns his own living than one who is idle while living on credit.”

Lady Charmain looked as if she wanted to say more. She bit her lip as she thought about it.

Eleanor was even more amused. Clearly, there was a tale to be told. “Go on, Lady Charmain. I am hard to shock, I assure you.”

“He is the book keeper in a br– in a house of ill repute,” Lady Charmain blurted, then blushed a fiery red and covered her lips with the fingertips of both hands.

A sentence guaranteed to set off alarm bells! But Lady Charmain was a grown woman, and not one of Eleanor’s family or protegees. Best to proceed cautiously. “And what is this gentleman to you, may I ask?”

“I owe him a favour,” Lady Charmain explained. “He saved my life, you see. He has asked to escort me to several Society functions, which seems a small return on so great a service.” She heaved a sigh. “Let me tell you the whole. It is, after all, what I came here to do, since I could not think it right to possibly cause a stir without warning you.”

***

This scene relates my coming release, Snowy and the Seven Doves. (Out next Thursday) Here’s the flashback to Snowy’s rescue of Margaret.

She is walking through a narrow alley in the dusk, her mind still on the patient, a badly beaten woman, whom she had visited in a tumble-down building in the stews.

Without warning, men appear out of the darkness. Her footman goes down before either of them can react, felled by a cosh to the head. She shrinks back against a wall, and they gather around her, hooting and laughing, enjoying her fear. She understands little of their thieves cant, but she is not a fool. She knows what they have in mind.

She stands over the footman’s unconscious body, jabbing at her attackers with her umbrella, vowing to inflict as much pain as possible before they take her.

Suddenly, another man is there. An incredibly handsome man, with close-cropped dark hair and the build of a Greek god. Two of her five attackers go down under his assault, out of the fight.

She fights the other three at his side until they flee. He turns to her, and she looks into his grey eyes and prepares to thank him. He speaks first.

“What the hell is a lady like you doing here? This is not Mayfair, princess. You cannot walk around the slums as if you own them.” A well-educated voice. The tones of a gentleman of her own class. An indignant reply is on the tip of her tongue, but before she can say a word, her mind disappears down a spiral of darkness.